1592 Methos Meets Watcher
by sillivan
Summary: Excerpt from Rooted in the Past: "And that was how I learned about the Watchers. Lefebre was my Watcher, and he broke all their rules: first by helping me, then by coming out of the shadows to befriend me."


**1592, Bettin, Eastern Germany**

Rain pummeled his head. The hat he wore seemed no protection and he grumbled in exasperation. The clouds turned the afternoon sun dark almost as if it were already evening. Theron VonFleischmann would have stamped through the streams of water but he had no intention of getting his feet wet. He amended that: wetTER. They were not numb, yet. Why did I move here? he thought irritably. Why didn't I wait until tomorrow to see Frederick? A pointless question. He liked Frederick, and the man's new books were worth a thorough soaking to get an immediate look at them.

"DOWN METHOS!" someone shouted out of the rain.

He dropped immediately and rolled, stunned to hear his name but adapting to the situation. Even as he moved he heard an arrow whiz over him. Sword in hand, he coiled to his feet, arms drawn in and sodden fur coat bunched up around him to make himself as difficult a target as possible. Despite his precautions, a second arrow struck him in the thigh. Methos balanced on his uninjured leg; the other one would be useless until he could remove the arrow. Expecting it and ready, he deflected the next arrow. His gut twisted and his pulse hammered as another Immortal came into his range. The other came out of hiding, grinning.

"So you are the legendary oldest man? Not much to look at," he mocked, and Methos identified his accent as Brussels. "I am Jean Clouet, and you are dead."

Clouet's tactics were annoyingly effective. Methos was at a considerable disadvantage in the rain on a muddy street with an injured leg, but he did not waste his breath on a response to the verbal taunts. Controlled breathing and concentration muffled the pain in his leg, and he adjusted his balance to favor the injury. He took the higher ground, his good leg on the downslope, allowing gravity to keep the weight off of the other one. Clouet, laughing, set his bow aside. He drew a knight's long sword and closed on Methos. They engaged with a harsh ring of their blades. Clouet lunged forward and Methos pivoted, allowing the sword to stab through his coat. He immediately dumped the coat on top of Clouet's sword, losing his own blade beneath the furs. Smoothly withdrawing his dagger from its hidden sheath, he sliced it along Clouet's sword arm. The other man cursed, his sword tangled in the pile of wet furs, and released it to dance out of Methos' reach. He turned for his bow and gaped. The other weapon was gone.

Methos raised an eyebrow, recognizing further intervention by his unknown mortal benefactor, though how this person knew his name... He wrenched the arrow out of his leg and, as his wound healed, stalked Clouet. The expression on the younger Immortal's face was priceless. Disarmed and now facing an angry opponent, Clouet scrambled to get his sword from underneath the fur coat. Methos whirled and pounced on him, shoving him face down into the mud. "Tsk. All that and here is what you got."

Clouet struggled and Methos allowed him to turn his head. "Release me, you swine!" The youngster's arrogance amused Methos, who chuckled and placed the point of his dagger on Clouet's eyelid. The boy tried to sink into the mud, bravado abandoned. "Please, monsieur! Please, I'll do anything, just leave me my head!"

Methos cocked his head, backing away from Clouet to retrieve his sword from its place under his coat. The boy's fate was already decided; in part because of his strategy for attack, but also because... "You know my name," Methos said slowly, emphasizing each word.

"Oui! But I did not know before-"

Methos swung his sword and took Clouet's head, not allowing him to complete his sentence. The fool was too dangerous to even consider letting go. The Quickening came, as always, with astonishing force. It lit fires that blazed briefly along the rooftops before the driving rain extinguished them. Methos' soul was flayed anew as Clouet was absorbed within him, ghostly grief and resentment flaring to join with his own. Then it was over. Methos gathered his things and fled, hearing the startled voices within the houses on either side of him.

Someone knew who he was and acted to protect him. Sometimes he wanted badly to meet and talk with this person. Sometimes he grew angry, feeling that he was being played with; someone stoking the fires of his curiosity. If this were some elaborate trap to take his head, he would be sure to take the mortal with him. The incident left him feeling not exactly paranoid but uneasy for days. He watched for any strange mortals, eavesdropped on other people's conversations to see if he would recognize the voice, but to no avail.

It was his age and perverse sense of humor that came to his aid when the time finally came. Methos was returning from Frederick's house on a cold, sunny day, a new book cradled protectively under his arm. Someone stepped out of the small groups of people passing the other way and matched pace with him. "I was something of the black sheep in the family," the man said. His accent betrayed him as a man raised in Rome.

His tone was companionable, as if they had known each other for years. Methos did not look at the man, but shifted to be closer. "What made you the black sheep?"

He could hear a smile in the voice. "Well, I am my father's only admitted heir not born of his wife."

Methos laughed. He stole a look at the man. Slim, like himself, but shorter. Golden haired with a widow's peak; eyes blue under darker brows, and a long hawkish nose that showed aristocratic lines. Striking. Handsome, but not at all pretty. Absolutely familiar. Methos realized he had seen this man hundreds of times without noticing him. It was a disconcerting feeling but it explained why he could not catch the man when looking for him. Methos had been seeking someone new in the crowds, not this face that was almost a part of him. He realized that long before he would have suspected this particular face of being connected to his mystery, the mortal would have died of old age and the point would have been moot.

The other man reached out and touched Methos' arm almost reverently, and the Immortal realized that they were not moving, just standing there looking at each other. He shook himself and began walking again. The other stayed just beside him, yet somehow conveyed a sense of following in his wake. Methos asked, "Who are you?"

"Lefebre d' Arande."

Methos raised an eyebrow. "Any relation to Michel d' Arande?"

"Grandson."

"Ah!" Memory was extraordinary among Immortals. Methos' thoughts ran through everything he knew about Arande, and he was almost amused. Michel d' Arande used to read the New Testament to the king of France, the king's wife Louise and his devout sister, Margaret. Disconcerting, despite the millenia of Methos' life, to realize that had been long enough ago for this fully adult grandson to exist. A faint pain stabbed his heart. Just a few decades ago the scholars of Europe had been united in their pursuit of learning. There were households where only Latin was spoken but the impetus was fading as the energetic reformers aged and died, and the rest of the world spoke other languages. So much left behind, so quickly. He was brought back to the present by a chance meeting with Lefebre's blue eyes. Those eyes held sympathy and fondness. Methos drew a breath as they approached his home. "Come, break bread with me."

"I would be honored, VonFleischmann."


End file.
